


Angel in Aisle Four

by sarapunzel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Domestic destiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarapunzel/pseuds/sarapunzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean sends Castiel to the grocery store alone for the first time. It turns out to be a fairly enlightening experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel in Aisle Four

                “Be honest. Do you think you can handle this?” Dean asked, eyebrows arched dubiously. The angel nodded and reached for the ragged scrap of paper in Dean’s hand. If he could not be trusted with a grocery list, what could he possibly be useful for? Dean rambled, “You know what, I can cancel. Bobby doesn’t need my help anyway, he just wants someone to bitch at while he’s under the truck—“

                “Dean. I have carried the souls of purgatory within myself. I raised you from perdition. I have fought angels and demons alike, and I have been destroyed and remade by God himself. This is a grocery store,” Cas deadpanned, straightening the hunter’s collar. Dean fixed him with a look akin to amusement and released a dramatic sigh, shivering slightly at the brush of the angel’s fingers along his neck. Still, he would not be so easily swayed.

                “After the pillow thing, I’m not sure this really your forte.”

                Castiel’s mouth twitched in remembering that particular fiasco. He had come home with eight pillows, six of which Dean claimed were superfluous. However, since then Cas had stumbled upon Dean clearly enjoying the extra cushions, even if he was too stubborn to admit it. The image of an extremely drunk Dean curled up in the bathtub surrounded by throw pillows and empty cans of beer sprang to the front of Castiel’s memory. He had tapped the snoring hunter with a spatula in a feeble attempt to wake him (or at least make certain that he was still breathing) and, upon eliciting a rather animalistic growl from him, he had decided to simply let Dean sleep it off. This was not a common occurrence, luckily, but that event had taken place under special circumstances.

Several weeks ago, Sam had come to stay the weekend, which of course led directly to the usual unspoken contest to prove which brother could hold his drink better. Castiel did not understand this practice, but he was all too familiar with the concept of sibling rivalry. Sam and Dean each displayed their own distinct patterns of intoxication, which Cas found to be endlessly intriguing. He often left his own glass mostly untouched, caught up in the bizarre psychology experiment that was the relationship between the Winchester brothers. Dean was always the first to pour a drink, the first to initiate the duel. He would take a glass from the cupboard while Sam was still busy pulling his boots off and announce some obscure reason for ‘celebration’, as he called it. (After some time, Cas had come to understand that Dean’s definition of ‘celebration’ was nearly always synonymous with the copious consumption of alcohol and just as rarely tied with any formal holiday at all.) Castiel could perfectly recall the glittering in Dean’s eyes, that spark which gave him away every time. The angel had first learned to read facial cues from watching Dean, listening to the way he spoke, how his words did not always match his meaning. There was much to the hunter that still baffled Cas, and he assumed there was not time enough in the world for him to ever fully understand how Dean’s mind worked. But with the same driving determination he used to reserve for holy missions, Cas endeavored to decipher Dean’s every quirk and turn of phrase and commit them to memory. He knew there would come a day when his human charge would wither away, like a dandelion in winter, and he desperately hoped that he would have an eternity of memories to reflect upon when that time arrived. The angel’s body went temporarily rigid at the thought, and vaguely Dean’s voice sliced through the fog.

                “Cas? _Cas_? You okay, man?” he questioned, and the manner of drawing his brows together above the bridge of his nose informed Castiel that he was concerned. The angel could detect no sarcasm, no tic to betray some layer of teasing.

                “Yes. Sorry I—got lost in thought,” Cas explained lamely. He watched the moss-colored eyes shut and reopen in a slow blink. This, he had learned, was an indicator of impatience.

                “Well, try not to get lost in thought in the middle of an aisle or something. I know you think you’re a bad ass, but you’ve never had to deal with pissed-off soccer moms,” Dean told him. There was an underlying trickle of humor there, somewhere, but Cas couldn’t pinpoint it exactly.

                “I will try not to,“ here he balked at the uncomfortable word, “piss off any sports mothers.”

                Dean’s face split in a sudden grin and Castiel resisted the urge to trace a finger along the lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. He was trying to learn when and where it was appropriate to touch Dean, which was a complex formula to sort out now that he spent each night fully entangled in bodily contact. Cas found it interesting that there was such a divisive balance between what constituted propriety during the day or in public and the illogical passion that Dean seemed to encourage in private, in the dark, under a mass of sheets and far too many pillows.

                Dean stepped back and away, picking up a pen from the table and absentmindedly clicking it open and shut. Cas watched the little dark point emerge and withdraw as Dean stalled for time, wasting his breath on warnings and tips that Cas knew were safe to ignore. There were many things that confused him about the world, but he was entirely certain that a simple shopping trip was firmly within his realm of capability.

                “Anything else?” Cas quipped once there was a lull. Dean chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully and then shrugged.

                “Guess that’s it. Just—don’t talk to anyone.”

                “Dean, I talk to people all the time when I go to my classes.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He had spoken once or twice when called upon by the professor. In single-syllable responses.

                A flicker of panic passed across the hunter’s features. “Yeah, I’m not so sure that’s a great idea either, Cas.”

                The angel sensed a chink in Dean’s armor, an opportunity to utilize what little humor Cas had acquired. “I did not know you were the jealous type,” Castiel said smoothly. The effect was instantaneous, as the hunter closed the space between them in a single stride, essentially trapping the angel between his body and the refrigerator. This was not the exact response Castiel had predicted but the proximity of Dean’s mouth to his own made it precisely the reaction he liked most.

                The wide eyes dipped momentarily to Castiel’s lips and the angel knew to categorize this as a sign of impending lust. Perhaps he could talk Dean into putting off the shopping trip until later. But no sooner had the hope arisen than it was quashed, as Dean shook his head and closed Castiel’s fingers tightly around the wrinkled shopping list. “Just be careful,” he growled, and by the curl of his lip Cas sensed that he was struggling internally. He wanted to postpone the grocery store, too.

                With a willpower Cas had to admire, the hunter shuffled away. Cas fought the urge to check the front of his pants, to monitor the reaction he suspected was taking place. For later, he promised himself. Later, when the work was done. For now, he would follow orders and retrieve the milk, bread, beer, and various other indistinguishable items from the shopping center in town. “I am always careful,” he replied coolly, and, sweeping the keys up from the table, he stalked out the door.

                He settled behind the wheel of the Impala and, as he always did, inhaled deeply the comforting scent of sun-warmed leather and a faint, distinct smell he associated with Dean. The car was as much a part of Dean’s identity as his soul, it seemed, and so it went without saying that Castiel was eager to learn every part and detail of the vehicle. After he had finally convinced Dean to allow him behind the wheel, he had grown fond of driving. It was a welcome opportunity for solitude. He still craved Dean’s presence, even in these moments, but he knew instinctively that if he smothered the hunter too much, it would only serve to push him away. So Cas learned to curb his persistent need to watch over Dean by routinely forcing himself to do things alone. In doing so, he was beginning to realize that spending time alone could be enjoyable, if a little unsettling at first.

                He turned the key in the ignition and relished the stuttering roar of the engine. It was a sound that reminded him of harrowing getaways and long hours of surreptitiously observing Dean’s profile from the passenger seat. As Cas tapped the gas pedal and cautiously backed down the driveway, he hummed to himself. It was a song he could not seem to banish from his head, one that had tested positively as a melody sure to bring Dean to his knees. Before pulling into the street, he reached under the seat to rummage for a well-worn cassette tape. Upon lighting on the notched plastic case, he smiled and dusted it off on his knee. Pushing the tape into turn, he checked the rearview mirror one final time (to make sure Dean wasn’t watching) before peeling out in a violent curve down the muddy hill. The song that buffeted hypnotically from the speakers weaved through the small space within the car, like a velvet snake coiling around the angel’s neck. Music was one of the human pleasures Cas most deeply appreciated, second only to sex and followed by food. He was uncertain whether his enjoyment of music was more rooted in the mechanics of the art form itself or in the fact that Dean was the one largely responsible for exposing Cas to it in the first place.

                He sang along softly as he drove, recalling the lyrics as easily as his own name. Dean had seemed impressed by Cas’s ability to retain information like the words of a song or the order in which the periodic table of elements was arranged. Castiel had shrugged and simply let Dean believe it was an unconscious talent, something that came naturally. And while the angel did have a certain affinity for keeping facts and sequences in his head, there was far more to it than he let on. Song lyrics were important to him, as he had learned from observing Dean that music was an indispensable tool for human expression. Castiel had tuned into the way Dean felt toward him long before the hunter made any mention of it, simply by reading his body language and paying rapt attention to the music he played. Many of the songs were Dean’s tried-and-true favorites, “classics” as he called them, but Cas noticed that Dean’s physical reactions throughout the songs became markedly different. Any lyrical reference to sex drew a comely flush to the hunter’s cheeks, and he was apt to talk loudly (and often nonsensically) over the words pertaining to Heaven or angels. This was an oddly specific point, Cas thought, but after countless replays of the same Led Zeppelin songs, he had simply drawn the conclusion that Dean’s heart was changing, turning ever more open toward Castiel.

                It had been a shock, a beautiful surprise, when he first dared to imagine the feeling was shared. Castiel had loved his wayward human charge from the very instant his outstretched hand collided with Dean’s raw, beaten flesh. The descent into Hell had been a painful one, a terrifying glimpse into just how very far his older brother Lucifer had fallen. It had taken careful planning to orchestrate the recovery of Dean Winchester. Prior to his mission, Cas had never been one of the angels who felt resentment toward humanity. But he had never seen much cause for celebrating their success as a race, either. The pertinence of plunging not only from Heaven, but past Earth and beneath, merely to extract a puny sinner from perdition had been beyond Castiel’s understanding at the time. But as he listened to his brothers lament the fall of the “Righteous Man” and his shattered will, Cas felt an unusual kinship for the human. He could not explain the fiery pit in his gut that urged him to volunteer for the order against all logical protest screaming in his head, telling him _you’re not ready, you’re too weak, you’ll paint yourself a fool_. He claimed that his purpose was to serve God and to prove himself worthy of the garrison’s respect. After all, he was the little brother, the inferior angel left behind when the horns blared for battle. But despite his words, he felt there was something greater, deeper, pulling at him.

Still, his resolve was not unshakeable in those first days. The misery of Hell was overwhelming. By the time he had dodged the thousands of traps and obstacles along the fiery way, he was considering just returning to Heaven empty-handed. But some ghost of an impetus spurred him to persevere through the flames until he located his captive.

                Castiel had been struck at once by the catastrophic depths of sorrow present in Dean’s face as he carved into the ribs of a wailing victim. The Righteous Man had fallen, as predicted, but he had not been entirely destroyed. He had not stooped willingly to his dark fate. There was a shining soul at the center of it all, beneath the thick hide of horror and loathing. When at last the angel was close enough to grasp Dean’s shoulder, he was nearly shaken back from the sheer multitude of thoughts and memories and fears that flooded his mind, the inexplicable onslaught of human emotion surging through the molecules between them. Dean had trembled with the weight of his burden, rendered lame by the blow of his failures and regrets. In a moment’s time something within Cas had shifted. He was no longer the ambivalent overseer of an inferior race; he had found himself entranced by the hidden complexities of a human soul. He had not known it at the time, but the fusion of angelic grace to mortal soul had begun at that first burning contact. He repeated in his head the mantra that kept him certain of his path for years: _one Grace, one soul, two halves of one whole_.

                Since the day of the Raising, Cas had spent his days second-guessing himself, doubting all that he knew. It was no simple task, reversing an eternity of deeply-seated obedience. But as Castiel watched Dean from one day to the next, he found himself believing that the questions were worth more than hollow answers. There was a sense of responsibility he could not shake, which was only partially due to the orders he’d been given. It was much more than that. Castiel did not guard Dean because it was commanded, not even because he knew their bond was more than profound and he did not have much of a choice. He designated himself as guardian over the human’s life because he loved him more than his brothers, more than Heaven, more than himself. He had doubted his own Father once, the very pinnacle of faith, but not once had he truly faltered in his steadfast belief in Dean Winchester. Castiel had taken the plunge long ago when he accepted the order to descend into Hell, but he had never expected to simply keep falling.

                The recent influx in precipitation was beginning to reap gorgeous rewards all around, as the thick woods flanking the highway were surging with new growth. Everywhere Castiel looked, he was greeted with the luminescent bright green of an Alaskan summertime. The sun was a persistent presence at this time of year, relentlessly beaming from the clear skies. But the high July weather was capricious and fickle from one year to the following, and for the past few days rain had been falling every afternoon like clockwork, just about the time Dean was driving home from work. Cas smiled, remembering Dean’s midnight complaining about nature being a bitch. The angel had not even tried to reason with him or argue, because at that time of night Dean was usually too exhausted or too distracted to hold a conversation. Although, Cas admitted, it was usually the angel himself who provided the distraction, which often exacerbated the exhaustion.

                The Impala barreled down the weather-beaten highway at a rollicking speed somewhere between 90 and 100 miles per hour. Cas always drove much faster when he was alone. Having Dean in the passenger seat made him so nervous that most of the time he simply surrendered the wheel, content to let Dean take the control. He had pulled Dean from the wreckage of Hell and swept him out of harm’s way too many times to count, but he still feared the potential threat of an automobile accident. As he had read in a sociology book at the college library, thousands of humans met their demise in that manner each year. Even though Cas was fairly certain he could react quickly enough to rescue Dean if the situation occurred, he was set on avoiding it if at all possible. He had seen Dean broken into pieces before, and it was a sight and a soreness that he hoped to never encounter again.

                Castiel could sense there was another presence up ahead and he pressed the brakes until he reached a less offensive speed. His intuition had been correct, and he narrowed his eyes menacingly at a police car parked behind a sprawling bush on the side of the road. The rules humans created for themselves were petty and inexplicable, Cas thought, but Dean had made it very clear that if Castiel was going to assimilate into the human race, it was important for him to remain cleanly within the lines and laws of society. Cas had found this a little hypocritical coming from the mouth of a man with many criminal offenses haunting him. He was a wonderful human, but he was the very last person Cas would expect to extol the virtues of lawfulness.

                Once the Impala had rumbled past the signs for North Pole, down the empty expanse thereafter and finally into the city limits of Fairbanks, Cas began to feel a slight case of nerves overtake him. He drove cautiously, hyper-aware of the thousands of beating hearts surrounding him. It was strange, still, the sensation of self-doubt. For the vast majority of his existence, Castiel had acted without even a shade of regret, following orders given to him from an unquestionable source. But falling in love with Dean had brought him nearly as many woes as there were joys. His lack of social graces painted him strange in a crowd. His inability to lie very effectively kept him in constant fear of being discovered for what he truly was. Castiel knew he would never trade the life he’d carved out with his human charge for anything, but he still lamented the weight of humanity that pressed more heavily upon his shoulders every morning that he woke up on Earth.

                However, it was easy to forgive the Earth its faults when Cas awoke beside Dean Winchester.

                Finally, the Impala rolled to a graceful halt in a parking square in the very back of the shopping center. Cas was vigilant, paranoid that at any time a troublemaking youth or drug-addled transient could come wandering by and take a sledgehammer or a can of spray paint to the car. Cas shuddered to think how Dean would react to such an event. So, Castiel did his very best to keep the car secluded from all untrustworthy humans, which tended to include almost all of them.

                He flattened the crumpled shopping list across his thigh and attempted to make sense of the absolutely horrendous penmanship scrawled across it. There were many things about Dean that Cas found beautiful, but his handwriting numbered among the few that he did not. The first few items were legible: bread, milk, beer. These were the staples that Castiel knew without guidance. He lifted the scrap into the light and squinted, but to no avail. He toyed with the idea of calling Dean and asking for clarification, but he had made such a show of his preparedness before leaving the house. He couldn’t give up now. He’d been given a mission. There was a shopping cart to wrangle, groceries to obtain, receipts to highlight. Cas stuffed the list into his pocket and climbed out into the sunshine.

                As he made his way across the parking lot, he took care to keep his eyes averted. Cas often felt uncomfortably exposed in public areas, especially without Dean to act as interpreter and sounding board. Dean had told him more than once, “Cas, you’re lucky you’re such a handsome son of a bitch, because if you were any less gorgeous you’d have a hard time finding anyone to put up with how weird you are.” Castiel had taken it as a compliment.

He passed through the automatic entrance, selected a cart, and pushed onward. The first step of his quest had been achieved. Cas found the supermarket to be an overwhelming experience. There were so many people of different sizes and shapes and ages, all chattering at top volume and skittering about from aisle to aisle in a frenzy. He understood now more than ever why all humans rocketed around their daily lives with such impatience and fury; their lives were so short and there was much to see and do. But why so many of them seemed to flock to a supermarket to waste their limited lifespans browsing through shampoo and canned food was beyond his comprehension.

He walked briskly toward a hanging sign that read DAIRY, hoping that he was correct in assuming milk would be located there. He was so single-mindedly focused on the sign that he nearly ran over a small child who went careening by like a rabid animal. He gasped and swerved left, directly into a towering stack of merchandise. Two hundred boxes of iced oatmeal cookies crashed to the floor, sliding in every direction. Several boxes had landed neatly in Castiel’s shopping cart, and people were staring. A middle-aged man in a blue shirt pulled a rectangular device from his belt and stated, “Clean-up in grocery. Cookie tower has fallen.” Cas stood gazing at his own shoes for a couple of minutes while the group of whispering customers dissipated. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, Cas flicked his wrist and the boxes arranged themselves neatly into their former placement. (Two minutes later, when the cleaning crew arrived, they were baffled to find a perfectly sculpted stack of merchandise. They grumbled about “bureaucratic bullshit” and returned to the back of the store.)

Cas had quietly pushed away into an aisle filled with various boxes with desserts pictured on the labels. He checked the hanging sign and was confused by the term “baked goods”. Cas consulted the list and saw that one of the items, _Coke_ , looked very similar to cake. He shrugged and selected a box that read “Angel’s Food Cake”. He cocked his head to the side as he left the aisle, wondering what this fluffy-looking pale confection had in common with himself. He cheerfully continued on toward the back of the store to collect a gallon of milk, along with a carton of the beer Dean usually drank.

He had a run of success, finding both the bread and the pies in the same general vicinity. Pies were not included on the list, but Cas decided there couldn’t be any harm in indulging his human’s weakness, choosing three whole pies of slightly different flavors. There were only two more items left unchecked, and under the fluorescent lighting Cas was able to determine they were shaving cream and something called _lube_ , respectively. The first was easily located, and after curiously smelling each different brand, Castiel tossed the one that smelled most familiarly of Dean into the cart.

The last item was a mystery. Cas pushed the cart aimlessly down the aisles hoping to find something with that same name, but he was unsuccessful. He spotted a woman several yards away who was dressed in the same dingy blue smock as the other employees. She looked to be around the same age as Dean, perhaps slightly older, with graying wisps of dark hair falling about her face. She hummed as she stocked the shelves and Cas decided that she looked trustworthy. So with a deep inhale, Cas strolled over to the woman and politely tapped her shoulder as he had seen Dean do before.

The woman spun around and flashed a smile that revealed several missing teeth. Castiel took in the deep wrinkles at the sides of her nose and mouth and realized that perhaps she was actually quite a bit older than Dean. But she said, “Can I help you?” and so Cas felt obliged to let her assist.

He unraveled the list and held it out for her to read, pointing emphatically at the final uncrossed word on the list, the enigmatic _lube_. “I’m looking for this,” he said plainly. The woman’s smile quickly faded and her eyes widened.

“Oh-oh, well, it’s just a few rows down that way,” she stammered. It was then that Cas realized he was standing a little closer to the little woman than he had intended. His concept of personal space had been sufficiently muddled ever since he’d started sleeping with Dean. He always had to remind himself that the level of closeness allowed between the two of them was not advisable in most other situations. Like this one. Cas shook his head and stepped back.

“I’ve checked there,” he went on. “I couldn’t find anything like it.”

The woman wore a pained expression. “It’s there.”

“Are you certain?”

“Is this a joke?”

Castiel was taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “What? No, no jokes.”

The woman eyed him with suspicion. Sighing, she said, “All right, come on. I’ll show you.”

Cas followed her with the cart, hearing her mutter under her breath about ‘common decency’. He wondered what he had done wrong. It had seemed like a rather pleasant exchange, he’d thought. Suddenly the woman stopped in front of a row of small colorful bottles and waved her arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Lube,” she mumbled grumpily.

“Lubricant,” Cas breathed, feeling his face grow hot as he understood the shortened name. The woman edged away slowly and disappeared without another word. He had never called it by name, and neither had Dean. Well, this is an opportunity to learn from, Castiel assured himself. Lube was not something to ask a strange old woman about in a public place while standing uncomfortably close to her body. He selected a transparent bottle, shoved it underneath the other groceries, and headed toward the checkout lines with his cheeks and forehead burning. The human sensation of humiliation was one of his very least favorites, followed by loneliness and guilt.

Cas struggled to keep himself from abandoning the cart and retreating to the Impala. This was not a detail he planned to share with Dean when he arrived back home. Once he reached the front of the queue and artfully stacked his purchases onto the conveyor belt, he was beginning to breathe more freely again. The ordeal was nearly over. The boy behind the register was uncommonly cheery and bright-eyed for a youth, all wide smiles and floppy curls. Cas thought him vaguely cherubic.

“Did you find everything all right?” the cashier asked energetically. Afraid for a moment he’d been alerted that a suspicious man buying lube was on the premises, Cas gave a weak, nervous nod and shuffled forward, breaking eye contact.

“Good to hear. It’s a beautiful day,” the boy continued brightly as he arranged the groceries into flimsy plastic bags. Cas felt it impolite not to respond. He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the lanky youth.

“Yes,” he murmured quietly. The boy’s face changed and he paused to drag a hand through his hair before totaling the purchase. Castiel slid the credit card (emblazoned with the name David Gilmour) through the little machine, signed the pad with an unintelligible loop-de-loop and waited patiently to be handed a receipt. The boy extended the curling sheet of paper with a smirk and one of his dark eyes twitched shut. Castiel remembered this odd quirk was referred to as a wink.

“Have a fantastic day,” the boy said, eyebrows raised. Cas nodded his thanks and hurried away.

 

Once the angel arrived home, he found Dean asleep in the den, a terrible soap opera playing on the television. Cas carefully stowed the groceries away, sure to keep as quiet as possible. The hunter was curled in an almost catlike position, one of the infamous throw pillows clutched in his arms. Castiel tilted his head and smiled at the youthfulness, the innocence of the picture. When Dean slept, the lines in his forehead smoothed away, the lips fell barely parted so that they pouted like an infant’s. Like the curve of a bow, Castiel thought. Dean was fully dressed, save for his bare feet, and Cas assumed that he hadn’t sat down intending to take a nap. But he reasoned that, after a lifetime of three-hour nights, Dean was simply catching up on lost sleep. It did not bother Cas. He loved to watch him sleeping, because it allowed him to admire his own handiwork without reproach.

He was extremely proud of the job he’d done. Dean was, quite literally, flawless. But his surveillance was cut short, as the hunter began to mutter in his sleep and then prompted jerked awake. He started at the sight of Castiel hovering a few feet away and clapped a hand to his forehead. “Jesus, Cas. Sneaky bastard.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I can’t believe I fell asleep in the first place,” Dean lamented, gesturing at the TV screen. Cursive credits were scrolling while a melodramatic, whispery female voice sang the theme. “I missed the whole damn episode.”

This was one of the things Cas did not expect to ever understand. Why Dean was so enraptured by _Dr. Sexy, MD_ was a concept the angel could not grasp. But if it brought him enjoyment, Cas was always willing to lean into Dean’s arm and sit through an hour of stilted dialogue and unrealistic surgical feats. He found that this was more easily endured with a drink in his hand.

“Won’t they replay the same episode later tonight?” Cas pointed out. Dean beamed up at him.

“You really are a fucking angel, you know that?” the hunter said, shaking his head.

“Yes, Dean. I’m aware.”

Dean tweaked his neck to one side so that the joint cracked and then got to his feet. “So let’s see that receipt.”

Cas fumbled in his shirt pocket and unraveled the slick sheet of paper. Dean surveyed it with narrowed eyes. A smirk pulled at the sides of his mouth and he sighed. “Cas, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Castiel asked, brows furrowed.

“I, uh,” Dean began to chuckle. “I totally forgot lube was on here. My bad.”

Cas’s eyes widened. Dean put a hand on his shoulder. “How did _that_ go?”

So much for omitting that detail. “I—received assistance.”

Dean snorted suddenly and walked away into the kitchen. “Learning curve, my feathered friend. Learning curve.” He opened the fridge and looked up and down, clearly disappointed. “How are we supposed to make rum-and-cokes without Coke?”

“I bought something similar.”

Upon discovering the angel’s food cake mix, Dean let out a ragged sigh. “Nowhere close. But I do have to give you points for wordplay.” He referred back to the receipt and suddenly his mouth fell open. “Cas, what the hell?”

The angel gave him a questioning stare. “What? I bought some pies--”

“No, no, no. You’re not gonna patronize me with pie. Whose number is this?” Dean asked, face pulled into an expression Cas knew to indicate suspicion and maybe a hint of hurt. Cas stepped closer and scrutinized the receipt. There was a ten-digit number scrawled at the bottom. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he didn’t understand the pertinence of it now.

“I don’t know, Dean. I got the receipt from the cash register boy.”

Dean scoffed. “God, I can’t even send you to the damn supermarket without some punk ass kid trying to jump you in the checkout line.”

Cas was at a loss. “I don’t understand.”

“Cas, that kid gave you his phone number.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, probably because of your sweet ass.”

Cas paused to assess this. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, don’t go thanking me yet. I haven’t decided if I’m gonna let this slide or not.” Dean rolled his eyes and took a beer from the fridge. “I might have to kick some cashier ass.”

“He was very polite, Dean. I don’t think he would fight you.”

“Oh, I’m not looking for a fight. Just to—set shit straight, you know?” Dean said, but his face was no longer tense. He popped the bottle open and took a sip. “Can’t blame him for trying, though.”

Castiel’s fledgling sense of humor poked into his head and he cracked a smile. “So you _are_ the jealous type.” Dean downed a long gulp of beer and turned to Cas, shaking his head.

“Nah. I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”

                Cas was slightly put out by this tame response. “How can you be so sure?” He was speaking on pure bravado now. He knew there was no shred of evidence to support his ever deserting Dean. The hunter set the beer on the table and threaded fingers through the winging hair at Castiel’s  temple. Cas shut his eyes and hummed his delight in spite of himself. When his eyes opened again Dean was standing very close, his alcohol breath warm on Cas’s cheek.

                “You want me to show you?” Dean rumbled, that tell-tale quirk of his upper lip beginning to show. Cas nodded and was silent. Dean’s hand repositioned itself at the back of Castiel’s skull and he pressed his lips to angel’s open mouth. “We’ve got a few hours to kill before _Dr. Sexy_ comes back on.”

                The words came to Castiel suddenly: “Let’s play doctor, Dean.” He had no idea where the phrase had come from, not a clue what the concept entailed. But the look that flashed across Dean’s freckled face told him it had, in fact, been a very advantageous selection of words.

                The remainder of the evening was spent in the bedroom, and they were so engrossed in the new game that the soap opera’s time slot came and went without notice. By the time Dean realized he had missed the episode again, he was far too pleased and sleepy to care. As he rested in the crook of Castiel’s arm, eyelids almost shut and breathing rhythmic as the sea, Cas decided this was definitely one for the archives. The cashier boy had given him a very fantastic day, indeed.


End file.
